Dear F*cking Diary

WHY THE FUCK ARE PEOPLE LIKE DONALD TRUMP AND KYLIE JENNER STILL ALIVE AND MY DAD IS DEAD? WHY?

WHYWHYWHYWHWYWHWYHWYFUCKINGWHY? HOW?¡ WHY AND HOW THE FUCKING FUCK IS THIS REALITY?

“CELEBRITIES” IN A FUCKING JUNGLE AND MY DAD IN A FUCKING CREMATORIUM, HOW? Why?

How am I alive but my dad isn’t?

Why am I alive but my dad isn’t?

Why am I alive?

I am so angry at everyone and everything.

Last night I had a meltdown and my mother phoned the Filth to come and get me, and the bloody cleaner heard me shouting from outside so he called the police too, So 5 fucking pigs turned up but luckily I got out before they could take me away. Fuck em all. CUNTS. That’s what I shouted all the way to the pub, and then at everyone inside the pub. Ha. Cunts.

It also appears that I’m bound on some ill-advised mission to get myself barred from every pub in a ten mile radius. If my behaviour stays the way it is, I will succeed. It’s disgusting really, I’m embarrassed and ashamed but can’t stop.

I keep smashing glasses, punching windows, breaking furniture, stealing pub property, hitting my friends, slapping strangers, being rude to everyone, disrespecting the landlords and managers despite their saintly patience and understanding of my behaviour, telling doormen to go fucking fuck themselves, screaming at people no matter what they say or do regarding my father.

I’m basically doing everything my dad would be angry at me for doing. But I’m angry at what my dad’s doing, fucking leaving me and not coming back.

I also dumped the perfectly lovely man I’ve been seeing, entirely unfairly and unexpectedly. He’s so nice I feared that he’s too nice for me. My girlfriends told me to embrace the idea of being treated nicely by a man, they told me I deserve a nice guy for once instead of opting for one of my usual scumbags. But I fucking pushed him away anyhow, like I do with everyone. And now I’m alone.

I hate myself but I also love myself because I am half of my dad. And I worship my dad, so I guess I worship half of me which is problematic when all I do is cause trouble and do stupid shit.

I am so fucked. My knuckles are broken and bruised, and I smashed my head against a marble floor and metal ledge repeatedly until I passed out. I want to die and yet I am so desperate to live.

I am so desperate to live.

It has been three weeks since my dad died. I am on my own in a faraway pub. I have brought with me the first of my dad’s poetry journals. It starts: Falmouth 12.09.67. It’s a poem about someone called Claire. He would’ve been a few months shy of his 20th birthday. Even with the wine and powder, I don’t think I can do this.

My dad wrote poetry regularly until around 2008. After that he wrote commission pieces only. I have a lot of reading to do. 50 years of poetry, give or take. I’m in tears just looking at his handwriting. I miss him so much. I want to publish his poetry online, make him his own sort of archive, so that his incredible and diverse collection of poems can reach more people. Watch this space.

Personal goal for tonight: Do not kill anyone.

Personal goal for tonight (2): Do not end end up in the canal, by any ways or means.

FUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKFUCKF CKFUCCKUFCUKCKF FKCKCUFCJCKMFUCKFUCKFUCIFUCKCFUCKFUCKFUCKINGFUCK. Cunts. Fucking cunts.

Comment added ten minutes after this post was published:

THE PUB JUKEBOX IS PLAYING BOB MARLEY EVERYTHING IS GONNA BE ALRIGHT ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WHO PUT THIS ON YOU FUCKING SHITCUNT

Comment added 12 minutes after this post was published:

Now it’s HERE COMES THE SUN ARE YOU FUCKING JOKING, this must be a joke, you lot are trying to wind me up, well guess what, I am done, I am so fucking done.

Comment added 15 minutes after this post was published:

Aha! Mercy, at last, in the form of Mary J Blige. Thank god dad wasn’t a fan of MJB. He wouldn’t have recognised her if she sat next to him on the bus. I can breathe when things don’t remind me of dad. Phew.

Comment added 16 minutes after this post was published:

The bouncer is telling me how he works an 80 hour week and I don’t even feel bad for him. The Cure are playing now, they’ll feel bad for me and the bouncer and everyone. Must not end up in the canal under ANY circumstances.

Comment added 20 minutes after this post was published:

Currently compiling a list of artists/bands I can listen to/tolerate/enjoy without thinking of dad. The Cure, The Smiths, Joy Division, Springsteen, Nirvana, Johnny Cash, Queen, Oasis, London Grammar, Arctic Monkeys, Jamie T, WHY ARE THEY PLAYING LOU REED WHYWHYWHY HE MAKES ME WANT TO DIE ON A REGULAR NORMAL DAD’S ALIVE DAY I CAN’T HEAR HIM NOW I’M LEAving and taking my wine with me, fuck you lot, yes I’ll return the glass tomorrow hahahahahhaha CUNT *throws wine glass into canal* fuck it

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8 thoughts on “Dear F*cking Diary

  1. My heart broke over and over with each line I read. Hang in there love, life’s a mess when your father isn’t around; but I promise promise you with all of my heart he’s still got your back. I say that cuz I lost mine too, but I know he’s never left me. Sending loads of love and hugs dear, I know you need it now more than ever.

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